


Wordpoops

by nidorina



Category: 999: Nine Hours Nine Persons Nine Doors - Fandom, Dangan Ronpa, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Drabble Collection, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:12:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nidorina/pseuds/nidorina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and ficlets too short and/or uninteresting enough to warrant their own works, or things dug out of my WIP folder that are never going to be finished but were too decent to sit in the shadows forever.</p><p>Chapter titles will contain fandoms and characters, notes will contain short summaries and warnings. Assume worksafe unless otherwise told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dangan Ronpa, Mukuro

**Author's Note:**

> Some immediately post-IF occurrences. Spoilers for DR1 endgame.

**one.**

They've been out in the world (or what's left of it) for mere hours but they're settled in like they have lived a life here; they have a shelter all to themselves that is stocked with supplies and is roomy, if decrepit, and each of them has a gas mask for his or her own and at least one back-up medical mask. Words of gratitude linger in their thoughts, sitting alongside the knowledge of _why_ Mukuro could know where to lead them as soon as they stepped out of the door, so no one speaks a word.

“I can't stay,” she says at last once the shelter's been inspected and the supplies inventoried.

“Ikusaba-san,” says Makoto in the beginning of a protest.

“No, it's for the best,” Kyouko says. “Given her reputation, if she were found with us...”

Mukuro nods and then slowly adds, “But even if I don't make my enemies yours, it's still dangerous. Watch your supplies. Always have your masks. Beware the despair army—beware strangers. Learn how to fight.” She glances up towards Sakura who gives the subtlest of nods in return, and beside her, Aoi says, “We'll set up a training plan right away!”

“Stay together,” she tells them, and her voice shifts into her own tone, strong and serious, instead of lilting between experimental personas. “Stay together. Do you understand? Wherever you go, go together.”

For a few moments they are all silent and Mukuro lets the weight of the words diffuse through the air, heavy like smog. At last she tells them, pitch shifted again, “I'll...check in. I won't abandon you. And one day, I'll return here with your memories.” The words are a steady promise. “Naegi-kun...”

“I'll keep reminding them,” he says. His speech still comes out in rasps, though he's breathing well now and standing without Kyouko's shoulder for the moment.

There's an imperceptible tug at the corners of her lips that's gone as soon as it came. Mukuro looks out to all of them and fourteen pairs of eyes meet her gaze. It could be hope that she sees in the faces of her classmates for the return of their lost years and the rebuilding of friendships else left to certain doom inside of their school walls, or it could be despair at the loss and the unknown and the future they have come to. But Mukuro Ikusaba has long since stopped being able to differentiate these things.

A short nod is her farewell; she bows her head, adjusts the surgical mask, and silently backs out through the door.

 

**two.**

It is a weapon that half-has Junko Enoshima's face, but even twins are imperfect put beside each other, no matter their dress or disguise. It tears through entire faux-military divisions with whatever weaponry it can find; it goes in with a sharpened metal scrap rod and emerges with firearms looted from faceless corpses. It makes enemies of the entire world with its betrayal of the people who brought to ruin all else outside them. It tears the new world order apart with one word at a time, speaking the only language that it has ever known: violence.

 

**three.**

The wounds don't heal as clearly as she'd hoped they might have. Her findings and treatments keep them from infecting but the skin scars over. On the battlefield, she had never once been struck, but the Monobear crowd gave her grotesque burns and firework imprints made of shrapnel scars across her body. Perhaps if Junko's outfit hadn't left her so exposed, they would be less severe, but there's no changing that now.

Hiding them best suits her purposes so she uses the concealer just as her sister taught her to do. This, too, is so like Junko, but Mukuro still doesn't think she understands.

At times, though, she finds a night's shelter with a splintered glass pane, almost a mirror, and she stands before it and look over each deformity: her chest and arms are the most damaged, to the point that it almost seems like the unmarred skin left is unnatural and she grew with withered flesh. The difference in the space thinly veiled by Junko's high socks is made up for by the length (or lack thereof) of her skirt. Blessedly, the vital features of her face are untouched and function as they should, and even her freckles are clear, but still, the left side (and the left side only) of her face and neck are scarred beyond repair.

The concealer is perfect for her needs, but if not for that, she would leave them bared. No soldier in Fenrir was ever indifferent to a scar—either they were a disgrace to one's name or proud symbolism of one's victories. For Mukuro, these blotches are an honor; they are symbols of her last stand, militant medals for the battle that mattered the most.


	2. Dangan Ronpa; Chihiro, Kiyotaka, Mondo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Implied endgame spoilers.
> 
> Post-IF or some other "everybody lives" AU in which the despair regime has probably been overthrown. Left unfinished.

It starts when Kiyotaka kneels on the dust-covered ground of a deserted city scape where buildings barely stand in the few places that they do at all and takes a broken plank of wood in his hands and says, “It’s not ruin, it’s raw material.”

Their fate is sealed as soon as Mondo mutters, “I always did wanna be a carpenter,” and Chihiro breathes, “Really?” when no one else hears (and the missing alternative for him goes unspoken between them, but Mondo still bears the logo on his jacket back even though it has been burned and bled out of history books). He is forbidden from design as soon as he presents a “concept drawing” of nursery child quality that features a motorcycle cage and two garages but no bathroom or scale. The duty falls to Kiyotaka when Chihiro offers to do the wiring instead. He accepts it, of course, with little tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and a grin threatening to break through his dutiful visage and he calls it “our house” already, and the three of them are beaming.

While Kiyotaka meticulously draws up blueprints, the other two begin gathering. There are less salvageable debris than they hoped so they travel back out to the cities still standing after the riots and newly released with the rest of the world. They find people whose faces light up when they hear the world “rebuild,” and that is enough for them to fill up Chihiro and Mondo’s arms with everything they ask for (if not for their words, for Chihiro’s tears, and if even that fails then all Mondo needs to do is crack his knuckles—that is how they end up coming back with Mondo in the driver’s seat of a bulldozer, honking the horn all the way in).

After weeks of striving for perfection, Kiyotaka presents the final design: a single story, simple, practical, uniform. Just the look of the blueprints feels like _home_ , though; not compact but cozy, and their bedrooms sit in a triad beside each other. Chihiro gasps, “It’s  _perfect_ ,” and Mondo complains about the absence of a motorcycle cage while he musses Kiyotaka’s hair.


	3. Dangan Ronpa; Mukuro/Junko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DR1 spoilers, sibling incest.
> 
> Based off [my birthday present](http://needlekind.tumblr.com/post/43046483795) and [subsequent replies](http://needlekind.tumblr.com/post/43048540088).

“Hey, hey, sis.”

Mukuro has long since stopped being even remotely surprised by Junko’s attempts to sneak up on her. Junko takes a step out from behind her to sling an arm over Mukuro’s shoulders and she teeters in her chair. So much for that essay, she decides, and drops her pencil onto her desk.

“Disappointing siiiiisteeeer!” Junko trills. Her arm closes up at the elbow, tightening at Mukuro’s neck. She leans in as close as she can to Mukuro’s ear and whispers, almost casually, “Wanna make out?”

Were Mukuro facing a mirror, she might think something like, wow, I didn’t know that entire faces could even turn that shade of red! Instead she says, “Wha—”

“Just kidding!” With a laugh that’s more like some kind of jackal’s bark, she throws her arms up in the air (almost hitting Mukuro in the nose in the process) and teases, “You didn’t think I was serious, did you?!”

“N-no,” mutters Mukuro. She ducks her head down and her eyes dart over for just long enough to see the mocking grin, lopsided and full of teeth, stretched across her sister’s face, and then averts her gaze back to her desk.

“Even your sense of humor is a disappointment!” she says. As she speaks, she struts in little circles nearby, still seeming intensely proud of herself. “Haven’t you ever heard a joke in your life?”

“S-sorry, Junko-chan.”

She half-covers her mouth with the back of her hand and chuckles in a deep, regal-sounding way. “You’re my disappointment, anyway,” she hums in a way that is almost ominous. When she circles by Mukuro again she leans down, pecks the tiniest of kisses on her cheek, and leaves her sister’s room without another word.

Mukuro reaches out to touch her own face and feels the lipstick smear transfer onto her fingertips.

(So much for that essay, she decides.)

It’s enough.


	4. Dangan Ronpa; Aoi/Sakura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like that famous Lady and The Tramp scene but with a donut. Yeah.

When Aoi walks into the cafeteria, Sakura has beaten her there and is sitting at one of the tables, a donut from an almost-empty box half in her mouth, and genius strikes.

Before Sakura is allowed the chance to take a bite of her sweet and put it down, Aoi sprints over, jumps up to lean against the opposite side of the table, and snatches the other end between her teeth.

“Ahaheeah,” Sakura says very seriously through the donut in her mouth.

“Ahkoorah-hah,” Aoi answers. She chomps on her edge of the donut.

It does not occur to Sakura to let the donut go, even as Aoi chews her way around to the very edge of the pastry. She bumps her nose right up against Sakura’s cheek and, through the last morsel of food in her mouth, makes an insistent whining noise.

All things considered, this is very impractical.

Nonetheless, Sakura takes the side of the donut left undevoured in her hand so that it doesn’t drop when she turns just slightly to take the last bite that she can reach. Her lips brush against Aoi’s and Aoi pushes forward, eating up the very last bite of the donut between them, and smooches Sakura directly on the mouth.

“You taste like sprinkles,” she declares when they finally pull apart. Neither of them can imagine a better compliment.


	5. Pokémon; Bianca/Hilda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More girls kissing each other.

Bianca tripping over things is as new of a phenomenon as Hilda almost stumbling over herself in her scramble to get to her aid is—so, not at all.

“Be more careful!” cries Hilda in a near-panic made of concern. Bianca makes a little whining noise and picks herself up so that she is sitting instead of lying prone on the ground. She is pouting indignantly, though not at Hilda. Maybe at the idea of letting herself look hurt, or just at gravity itself. After dropping to her knees to help gather the items scattered out of Bianca’s bag, Hilda asks, “Where’d you get hurt?”

“I’m okay,” she insists.

“Look at you, your elbow’s all scraped up and bleeding again!”

“Hildaaaaaa.”

“Are ankles supposed to twist that way? It’s not broken, is it?!”

“Hilda, my ankle’s fine! Look!” She flexes her foot up to and including all of the angles a foot is supposed to flex at.

“Are your knees all scraped up underneath those grass stains, too? Hold on,” Hilda says. It takes a moment of struggle to get her messenger bag’s sash off from across her chest, and then she starts throwing her items everywhere while she digs through it in search of a first aid kit. “It might get infected if we don’t—”

“Hilda,” Bianca says, her mouth set in a hard line, “I have a cut and it hurts.”

That seizes Hilda’s attention entirely. “Aw, no, Bianca!” She crawls forward on her hands and leans in to look. “Where?”

“Right here,” Bianca answers, and jolts forward to take Hilda’s face in her hands and kiss her.

As soon as she’s there, she’s gone again, leaning back and starting to giggle. Hilda flushes bright red, and Bianca makes a dignified snorting noise and covers her mouth with her hands.

“All better!” she chirps, and Hilda laughs and reaches to pull Bianca’s hat down over her eyes, and when her hands rush up to fix it, Hilda takes them in her own.


	6. Dangan Ronpa; Mukuro, Junko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://lilligant.co.vu/post/68413503582) and written on anon request.
>
>> forget coffee shop AUs there need to be more random diner in the middle of nowhere at one in the morning AUs
> 
> Could be despaircest, could be gen, whatever.  
> DR spoilers. 

"Oh. My. God."

Voices that Mukuro did not expect to hear at one thirty seven in the morning:

“ _Oh my god._ ”

That one.

People who have absolutely no reason to be in France, much less at its very outskirts:

"…U-uh, Sis?"

_This one_.

Mukuro looks at Junko, looks at the rag she’d been rubbing circles on the countertop with, looks at the empty tables and chairs out in front of her, looks at Junko (she is leaning in the doorway, holding the glass door open with her elbow against the CLOSED side of the cardboard OPEN sign, and wearing a closed-lipped grin that grows wider and wider with each second that passes with Mukuro staring at her with her jaw hanging open instead of saying anything), looks at the rag, fumbles it between her hands like it’s a live grenade she’s just been passed and she isn’t a super soldier who wouldn’t throw it back in the same motion used to catch it, and throws it over her shoulder. It hits the menu board behind her and the glass cracks. A few white letters fall onto the floor. The diner apparently is now selling “C OI  ANTS” and ”  EPES”.

Junko’s hands fly up by her face. “Oh my god!” she screeches. “Is it really  _you_ , Sis?! Is  _this_ how Fenrir soldiers spend their time?” She prances over to the counter, plops into one of the stools, and spins around in three circles. Slamming her hands against the counter and coming to a full stop, she says, “ _God!_  Is it just you here? Are you such a worthless soldier that they don’t even put you in  _combat_? They put you  _here_?”

"I’m undercover," Mukuro says through her teeth. She stares with such intensity at a stain to Junko’s left that it should be cleaning itself up on its own accord.

"Undercover." Junko’s mouth sets into a perfect line. Then her whole face scrunches up, and she reaches out to wipe her hands on Mukuro’s sleeve. "What reason would anyone  _worthwhile_  have to be  _here_ , of all places?”

Mukuro absolutely does not point out that Junko is, of all places, here.

As if reading Mukuro’s mind or the narration itself (Mukuro wouldn’t put either past her), Junko’s entire person droops at once. “my own worth feels diminished just by being in your presence,” she mutters. The entire counter shakes when she jumps, and she and screams, “ _Man!_  Tomorrow’s fashion show better be a fuckin’  _masterpiece_ if I’m gonna make up for all of your  _uselessness_!”

"S-sorry."

Junko scowls, smiles, and props her elbows up on the counter so that she can rest her head in her hands. “Ah, but even the despair of a failure would make me feel whole again…”

Her lip curls and she adds, “You’re just disappointing, though.”

"Sorry…"

Junko closes her eyes and sighs, content. “Waaaaitreeeess,” she sings, “I want pancakes.”

When she leaves at one fifty three, Junko leaves behind a grand total of one franc (where the hell did she get a franc) to pay for her order, and under her coffee cup is the corner of a ten euro bill that turns out to be a small business card with an excerpt from the Christian Bible on it.


	7. Super Dangan Ronpa 2; Mikan Tsumiki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this back in _April_ , but it's all right.
> 
> Probably contradicts canon, but I am surprisingly unspoiled. Pregame Mikan backstory. Spoils her freetime events, but not the game itself. Deals with abuse. There are non-graphic mentions burns and metaphorical needles.

Those earliest years were a blended haze of cracks resonating, blood spewing from uncertain spots, blossoming bruises, and the same shrieking over and over, so she can’t say when, exactly, the first time was that she waited until everyone took their cigarettes with them when they left her, and brought her shaking, burn-covered body into the bathroom.

The medical cabinet was high but otherwise unguarded. Even Mikan could stand straight enough on the plastic step stool kept so she could access the sink. One hand supported her weight against the sink’s edge for balance. With the other, she fumbled oversized bottles between her short fingers. Never had any of their contents touched her, although she had carried the containers and seen some of them used. But it was only ever  _others_  whose injuries were severe enough to warrant the use of these things; this one to dull pain, this one to clean cuts, this one to cover them. She would need…oh, all of them, perhaps, if she could reach any of them at all.

Her two knuckles could barely take the loose edge of a bandage roll between them, but it slid like sand between them when she tried to pull it back. Her injuries felt like they were smoking.

“Please,” Mikan whimpered, “ _please._ ” She yearned forward onto the tips of her toes. The sink took all of her weight from her desperate grip against it. Tremors shot up her arm and along her bones.

If she could only keep still. If she could only keep still long enough to keep a grip around it—

Her palm slid into the sink and the shelf came down with her other hand when she kicked the stool out from under her in her fall. She lurched forward in seek of support against the sink.  _Smash_ , her arms against the porcelain;  _smash_ , her forehead as she dropped to the ground.

“I’m sorry!” she yelped. “I’m sorry!  _I’m sorry!_ ”

Not a sound came back in response.

The words poured out of her, over and over; a sacred chant, a casting of a spell, a wish.

It was only after she could count to the highest number that she knew three times over again that Mikan allowed herself to take her hands off of her bruised head, come off of her stomach, and let free a sob belonging best to a wounded beast.

But there wasn’t time for that. She stood on her quaking legs, a pair of spindly garden vines with grapes flourishing up and down them in every fresh and not shade of thick purple, just long enough to hobble to the toilet for a seat to take. The bandages had landed here, the tube labeled “burn cream” there…and at her feet, a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Once she’d been told to fetch it to treat an injury of someone else’s, even while her back was still bleeding. For infections, she recalled.

The first breath after the cap’s removal was made of spines and she jumped with the sensation of noxious needles in her lungs, pricking through the membranes of her nostrils. But with the next came adjustment, and the next, warmth.

Mikan was not yet old enough to be able to say  _isopropanol_ correctly, but she could say  _safe_.

It was scalding against her skin, though, before it was allowed to cool. It hurt, it hurt, but she slathered it on each patch of cigarette-burnt skin. Only the things that hurt were ever the ones that helped.


	8. Dangan Ronpa; Kiyotaka/Mondo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More "1am at a diner in the middle of nowhere" AU. Requested by [blushingkiyotaka](http://blushingkiyotaka.tumblr.com/). It's amazing how much I _don't know_ how to write these two, much less together. I bet you can tell _exactly_ where I said "fuck it."

Anyone who needs to visit a diner at one in the morning cannot be up to any good—except for himself, of course; Kiyotaka is not up to nothing good, the only thing he’s up to is being a teenager with a sick sister and an ancestral debt but not money or work experience, and aren’t there child labor laws against having him here this early? But he’ll take it, he has to, and it’s good pay for doing barely a thing besides what he usually does: make every last inch of everything spick and span in perfect solitude.

But he is not always alone. Sometimes, barely an hour after he’s opened the diner, someone will come into the diner.

And anyone who needs to visit a diner at one in the morning cannot be up to any good.

The roar of motorcycle engines (yes, engines,  _plural_ ; good god) prefacing the entry of his latest clients bodes even  _more_ unfortunate behavior.

The front door opens and the bell on it does not so much ring as it does yelp as, one by one, men with unreasonable hairstyles and billowing leather jackets parade in and find themselves places at the tables and stools and oh god, oh god, a  _biker gang_ just walked into his diner, why did he trade shifts with Momo; she could probably punch out every single one of them and he is probably just going to get murdered if he doesn’t make them adequate pancakes.

So he passes out menus, apologizes for the inevitable wait times, and gets ready to make the best pancakes the world has ever seen.

Except none of them want pancakes. Nobu wants waffles and “as many home fries the plate’ll hold”; “Killer” ( _oh god_ ) wants bacon and that’s it, just an entire plate of bacon; Katsuo wants a toasted bagel…

Kiyotaka circles back around to the stools in front of the counter, where the man with the most outrageous pompadour who asked him to come back to him is still squinting unhappily at the menu.

"Sir?" asks Kiyotaka. "Have you made a decision?"

The man narrows his eyes at the menu. “What the fuck,” he says, “is a croy’s ant.”

"…A what?"

He jams his finger at a spot at the menu. “Croissant,” Kiyotaka says. “A, uh, croissant is…”

"God, nothing with a name that fuckin’ fancy should be allowed into anyone’s stomach. You know what? Surprise me. I don’t even care. Name’s Mondo," he adds, and Kiyotaka scribbles it down on his notebook, right where his stool is on his perfectly mapped out diagram of the diner’s seating arrangement, right above the word "pancakes."

Cooking enough food for a full diner on his own in a laborious effort, but the patrons are…polite? He hears loud conversation and hooting laughter outside of the kitchen, but never a demand to hurry, never any impatient jeers. He comes out with all of the food on a cart, and everyone cheers and whistles. The applause doesn’t end until he’s passed out every plate to exactly whom it belongs to—and he finishes with Mondo, who receives a stack of pancakes full of blueberries and drenched in syrup and topped with a square of butter with each side a flawlessly precise inch.

"Motherfucking  _pancakes!_ " Mondo screams, stabs his fork into them, and stuffs two whole pancakes into his mouth and has them chewed and swallowed in less than five seconds.

Kiyotaka decides to go check up on Killer.

But Mondo is determined to make conversation every time he passes by—he uses a request for more syrup (he’s going to drown in all that syrup) to ask what a kid like him’s doing in a place like this, asks for a second round and also how long he’s working til, says ( _screams_ , blurts; his voice keeps rising with every statement) the pancakes are perfect and so is his butt.

Mondo’s face suddenly turns red and stony.

And then he gets up and walks out of the diner.

Just walks straight out the goddamn front door.

There is silence, and then a long, angry, frustrated bellow.

Nobu’s laughter is convulsive enough to get coffee all over everyone at his table and the one next to it, and Killer pounds the table so hard that it  _breaks in half_.

"Boss can’t talk to girls  _or_ guys!” hoots Katsuo, tries to clap, and stabs himself in the hand with a fork.

_My butt_ , thinks Kiyotaka.  _My butt is like these pancakes_.

He spends a full five minutes not moving at all. His customers keep themselves “busy”, as in, screaming and guffawing hysterically.

(It is only after everyone has left, well, well after the incident, and he finds a scrap of paper with—of all things!—a phone number among the gratuitous tip money that Kiyotaka thinks,  _was I being flirted with just now?_ )

 


	9. 999; Clover/Akane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heheheh. This is chapter 9.
> 
> Requested by [Randy](http://cybercthulu.tumblr.com); Clover/Akane coffee shop AU (they hadn't played VLR before sending this and I was just cackling the whole time. Coffee shop AU indeed).

After two nonary games, Clover should be able to survive anything, but the midday rush during tourist season after  _three_  call-outs might just be the end of her.

"Sorry for the wait," she says to the girl in the corner seat with her laptop in front of her, facing the wall. Her face is wrapped up in a thick tawny scarf despite the heat and her brown hair tied into a bun atop her head. The girl doesn’t turn around when Clover places the coffee on her table.

She turns to leave and the girl says, “Thank you, Clover,” and Clover whirls around—Akane, it is her in her voice and her violet eyes that smile in lieu of her covered lips, brushes her fingers over Clover’s hand.

"Clover!" her manager calls from across the café. It turns into a scream when Clover’s eyes don’t leave Akane’s, when her stampeding heart stays lodged in her throat so she cannot vocalize all these things she’s thought to say over these months and months and months: " _CLOVER!_ ”

An excuse sits on the tip of her tongue, desperate to be good enough to let her stay here with Akane again, when Clover spins around away from her—

A shoulder brushes against hers, and when Clover turns around again, Akane is gone like wind and breath and nothing, coffee and computer and all.

Later, she spends her break behind the building, crouched against a wall and sobbing into her arms.


	10. Dangan Ronpa; Mukuro/Sayaka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing requested by [VV](http://vacantvisionary.tumblr.com/); when I pressed for an AU, they said "UH. MAGICAL GIRLS. OR ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE. EITHER WAY REALLY." Magical girl zombie apocalypse AU it is.

Something brushes the edge of Mukuro’s bell skirt; she whirls around with one leg raised and kicks a zombie hard enough in the head with her high once-white heels that it hits the ground, and its soft skull bounces against the cracked pavement.

"I don’t understand how you  _dance_  in these,” she says. With one hand, she pulls up her strapless corset; in the other, a shining ray of light in her palm takes the shape of a rifle. At her side, Sayaka scans the rows of an approaching horde of staggering undead enough meters away that they may prepare, but not enough that they may run. Every muscle in her body is tensed, her eyes are wide, and her mouth is set into a tight line.

"Easy," says Mukuro, and Sayaka blinks, looks over to her—and smiles, just sour enough through the sugar for it to be genuine.

Sayaka’s fingers brush the gem dangling from the pendant at her chest. “Magic Idol Sugarplum Soul,” she sings, “Transform!”

When the beam of light fades and Sayaka stands in her magical girl ensemble, all bows and ruffles, with a grin on her face and one hand on her hip and one clutching a short blade with a heart engraved on the handle, Mukuro asks, “Is it necessary to wait for the most dramatic moment to take action?”

The horde is close enough that Mukuro should have opened fire nearly a minute ago. Sayaka’s smile doesn’t fade. ”You love it.”

"…I do," she says, and there is the slightest flicker of a smile on her face as she cocks the gun, as Sayaka raises her blade to the sky.


End file.
